


roses are red

by firstlovelatespring



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 02, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 04:09:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17399795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlovelatespring/pseuds/firstlovelatespring
Summary: Someone has done something romantic for Peter, and he has absolutely no idea what to make of it.





	roses are red

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks are owed to [unbelieve](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelieve) for beta reading and [dailyprompt](http://dailyprompt.dreamwidth.org) on Dreamwidth for the prompt. The title is specifically from Roses by Juice WRLD.

“None of this makes any sense.”

Peter paces back and forth in the kitchen of the guest house, stopping every once in a while to stare daggers at the heart-shaped box that’s sitting on the island. It’s a piece of the puzzle he didn’t expect—the Turd Burglar’s crimes were in the past, and he expected them to stay that way. What’s even more jarring is the degree of personal involvement. Of course people were gonna doodle dicks on his notebook when he went to the bathroom in English class during the investigation at Hanover, but receiving a maybe-poisoned box of chocolates in Bellevue is a complete surprise. How many people even know he’s staying here?

“None of what? That someone would send you a box of chocolates?” Sam says.

“This must be about the fourth crime. The Turd Burglar was upset that we found out about the Advent calendar, sent us chocolates filled with cat shit or something.” Even as Peter says it he knows it doesn’t add up. The Turd Burglar _wanted_ everyone to know about the crimes; he made an Instagram for that express purpose. But then why would he send chocolates?

“It’s not—” Sam reaches for the note taped to the box, but Peter slaps his hand away. “You’re not seriously thinking about fingerprints again, dude.”

Peter had carried the box in from outside with oven mitts. “Point taken,” he surrenders.

“Exactly. And as I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted,” Sam says, holding up the card and getting his fingerprints all over it, “it’s not addressed to _us_. It’s addressed to you.”

There’s something weighted about his tone that’s setting off Peter’s alarm bells. What could Sam know that he doesn’t?

“I know we’ve been DMing him from my account, but he has to know who you are—”

“Maybe,” Sam says, looking at Peter with a tenderness that’s frankly a little frightening, “it’s a romantic gift.”

Peter frowns. It’s nice of Sam to be so concerned about him. “Do you think it’s from Chloe? I thought she knew I was gay.”

“Not Chloe.”

Peter frowns deeper. “Jenna?” Huh. There aren’t a lot of major players in this Turd Burglar thing that are girls. He wonders idly if this season will pass the Bechdel test.

“Not Jenna, dumbass. Lesbian.”

“What makes you so sure it’s romantic, anyway?”

Sam smirks. “You’re the crack documentarian. You tell me.”

Peter has one more theory, but he’s hesitant to guess. It could be right, or it could be crazy off-base; he has no clue. One thing that Peter learned from working with Dylan is that it’s hard to be impartial when the subject is so close to your heart. And guessing that the chocolates might be from Sam, well. That’s about as close to his heart as it gets.

He also learned that in order to get anywhere, you have to take chances. You have to believe blindly in whatever theory looks the best at any moment, and follow that lead until you find the truth, damn the consequences. He dug through a pile of dog shit with chopsticks for Kevin. He can ask Sam one little question.

“Sam?”

Sam looks up at him, not giving anything away in his expression. He really isn’t going to make this any easier.

“Was it, uh, you?”

“Now I understand why it took you eight episodes to figure out Christa did the dicks,” Sam says, leaning on the counter next to Peter and continuing to smirk. Even on this side of the chocolatey declaration of feelings, it’s infuriating.

“Shut up.”

“Is that the kind of ‘shut up’ like, ‘shut up and stop sending me romantic chocolates, you creep’? Or the kind of shut up like, ‘shut up and kiss me, Sam Ecklund you master of romantic—’”

“Shut up,” Peter says. And then—because Sam deserves an answer and because he really, really wants to—Peter kisses him.


End file.
